Savannah Bexhill On Sea Sex Escort ❤️❤️

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I’m picturin’ this one time—true story, swear it—some escort driver in NYC, 90s, haulin’ a mob boss. Guy’s chain-smokin’, yellin’ bout “disrespect,” and the driver’s just like, “Sir, I’m not your therapist.” Cracked me up when I heard it—balls on that dude! Made me happy, like, finally, someone’s not kissin’ ass. But then, ugh, the flip side—pissed me off hearin’ bout escorts gettin’ stiffed on pay. Workin’ 12-hour shifts, dodgin’ bullets maybe, and for what? Pennies? Screw that.

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Finally, I get my sarnie, and it’s glorious. Crispy bacon, fresh bread. I take a big bite, and it’s like heaven. But then, outta nowhere, this seagull swoops down and snatches half of it! I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” I’m chasing this bird down the street, flapping my arms like a madman. People are staring, and I’m just like, “Yeah, I’m the crazy forester chasing a bird.”

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